


keep still

by natlet



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 09:32:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natlet/pseuds/natlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Visitation day at Stockton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	keep still

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the S3/S4 gap.
> 
> This is just straight-up porn. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Three weeks into their little Stockton retreat, the guard who's escorting Tig to visitation shoves him against a wall in a stairwell and leaves him there. Half a flight down, the door creaks open. The state's been doing everything it can to keep the Sons apart while they're inside this time around, but Tig still isn't surprised when Clay steps into sight. He isn't even cuffed, the son of a bitch, and Tig frowns, the metal around his own wrists biting a little harder. "How do you do this shit?" he asks.

"And here I thought you'd be happy to see me."

"They said I had a visitor," Tig says. "I was kinda hoping it would be someone who'd suck my dick."

Clay laughs, letting the door swing shut behind him as he starts up the stairs. "Who says it ain't?" he says, and Tig knows that's bullshit, but a shiver goes through him anyway.

Clay doesn't stop when he gets close, keeps coming right into Tig's space, until Tig can feel the heat coming off his body. He smells like Gemma's perfume and Tig leans in, seeking it, mind flooding with the pull of home, dinners with everyone at Clay and Gemma's, long grease-streaked afternoons in the garage, the clubhouse. "How is she?" Tig says.

"She's good," Clay says. "She says hello."

"Nice of her," Tig says. They're pressed together now, Tig's cuffed hands pinned between them, and when he shifts he can feel Clay's dick hard against his leg. Tig huffs out a breath.

They don't talk about this outside. Outside, there's Gemma, and there's always some sweetbutt willing to let Tig do whatever kind of fucked-up shit he wants, and he's never been a choosy kind of guy, anyway - so he doesn't waste his time on this, doesn't jerk off thinking about Clay's callused hands on him. It's easy enough for it to become something they just don't do.

But inside - inside's a different story.

A man's got needs.

"Yeah, okay," he says, even though Clay hasn't asked, and he's already sinking to his knees when he feels Clay's hand settling heavy on his shoulder.

"I like you like this," Clay says, grinning, his hand smoothing up the side of Tig's neck, fingers scratching lightly through two days' worth of stubble. "On your knees for me. Looks good."

"Get fucked," Tig says. Some little part of him thinks maybe he should fight back, maybe he should - but the rest of him's got him bringing his hands up to work the ties on Clay's prison-issue pants, pulling his cock out. It's thick and hot and heavy in Tig's hands, the skin flushed and dark, wetness already gathering at the tip - he's been hard for a while, and Tig doesn't miss the muscles trembling in Clay's thighs as he wraps his fingers around the base.

"C'mon, man," Clay mutters, shifting forward, bumping the blunt head of his dick against Tig's lips. "We don't got much time," and Tig doesn't want to look too eager, but he also doesn't want to get fucking caught, so he just opens his mouth, lets Clay shove inside. "Fuck," Clay says, fingers curling into Tig's hair as the salt taste of him spreads across Tig's tongue. "Yeah."

He can tell Clay wants to fuck him, tugging at Tig's hair in time with his steady, rolling thrusts, and he has to fight hard to keep himself from pulling off Clay's dick and asking for it, begging, whatever he has to do to feel Clay over him, inside him. But Clay's already close, his movements going slow and jerky and desperate, so Tig spreads his hand against Clay's hip, tilts his head and lets Clay bury himself deep, swallowing around him as Clay comes down his throat, shaking fingers tracing around the edges of Tig's lips.

There's barely time for Tig to catch his breath before Clay's reaching down, dragging him to his feet, wrapping a strong, steady arm around his waist. He works his other hand down the front of Tig's pants, palms his cock. Tig could make excuses about prison and fear and going without, but he hadn't been expecting this and just the thought that it's Clay makes him come, fast enough it's embarrassing. He slumps a little, head falling forward against Clay's shoulder. He's not gonna stay long, just until he catches his breath, but then he feels Clay's fingers on the back of his neck, Clay's cheek tucked against his, and maybe catching his breath takes a couple seconds longer than he'd planned for.

"Thank you," Clay says, pressing a kiss to the corner of Tig's mouth.

Tig knows better than to turn into it. "Yeah."

At the bottom of the stairs, the door opens. "Time's up," the guard calls from behind it. 

Clay pulls back a little, smirks. "Think we can take him?" he murmurs, just low enough for Tig to hear.

"Him, probably," Tig says, "but I dunno about the sixty guys who're gonna come in after him."

Clay laughs. "Yeah, good point." He squeezes the back of Tig's neck lightly as he steps away, lets him go. "Tell Bobby I said hi," he says.

"Yeah," says Tig, and he watches Clay walk down the stairs, disappear behind the door, one last half-smile aimed at Tig before he goes.

Bobby's reading when Tig gets back to their cell. He glances up over the rim of his glasses. "Anyone good?" 

Tig shakes his head, turns on the tap in their little sink, washes his hands quickly. "Nah," he says. "Just my lawyer. Colleen needs money for the girls, schoolbooks or somethin'."

Bobby rolls his eyes. "No end to the shit we gotta put up with, huh." 

"Guess so," Tig says. He climbs into his own bunk. Bobby goes back to his book. Tig stares at the ceiling, and he doesn't think about anything at all until the bell rings for dinner.

*

_ through this cloud i hear you breathing  
through these bars i watch them bring more in _

**Author's Note:**

> Title and tiny text from _Letters From The Wasteland_ by The Wallflowers.


End file.
